The Forger
by MrsSelfDestruct
Summary: My attempt at giving Eames some background... Eames / OC
1. Chapter 1

Obviously, I do not own the character of that masterpiece that Inception is.

...

"See you tomorrow Will!"

Eames buttoned up his coat and opened the back door, shooting one last glance at the poor attempt of a dressing room. He shook his head lightly and ran his fingers through his short hair as if by doing so he could bring come order to the chaotic flow of thoughts. Finally, he stepped out of the decrepit theater and into the cold breeze, instantly hiding his hands in his pockets. He forced himself to hum a random melody, as he walked down the first flight of stairs.

"Top class performance up there Eames."

A female voice pulled him from the void his mind sough. Eames cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes, trying to perceive the contours of an ambiguous figure.

He cleared his throat, "Thank you."

"Pity it gets swallowed by the overall miserable ensemble. What is it with casting directors these days?"

Eames walked down the remaining flight of stairs with a feeling of uncertainty. One of his colleagues, Adam, had been robbed at the very same ally roughly two weeks ago. He clutched the lighter and keys in his right pocket, the only possessions he was caring. He remembered bitterly that he had run out of cigarettes the day before. Since he was so short of money those days he had decided that he would quit smoking. "This time, it's for good", he would tell himself.

"I think that even the general public is well aware of such chronicle disease"

"Indeed."

He felt a shiver crawling up his spine. Even though her voice was smooth and appealing, Eames could also sense a cold tone. As if answering his prayers, the nearby lamp post made a subtle cracking sound and poured a dim light over them. Eames couldn't hold back a sigh of relief and the corners of his mouth pulled up in an unashamed flirtatious smile. He took two steps forward, concentrating hard in order to take in all the details, "tall and certainly slender. Bet she has nice legs. Damned trench coat. Fancy though." Breathing in an additional dose of self-confidence he took a third step. "Hazel eyes. Exquisite, I like that! Lips, lips, lips… uh, that's how you spell lust. I wonder what her hair smells like, something sweet for sure."

"Pardon my curiosity but I don't think we've ever met… Darling."

"Correct." Despite his best efforts, the tone in her voice remained cold and distant as if she was uninterested in engaging in a conversation. She tucked a stubborn lock of her reddish brown hair behind her ear, the only flaw in an otherwise perfect coiffed hair, styled in a French twist.

"So, you are…" for a brief moment Eames considered stretching his arm and offer a handshake, but he decided against it.

"Someone who's currently casting a challenging role. And you definitely strike me as the kind of actor always hungry for a new challenge"

He nodded, pleased with the compliment. Yet again, her tone annoyed him. "Playing tough, aren't we, darling? So be it", he thought to himself.

"May I ask which company you work for?"Satisfaction and a hint of pride washed over him, as he perceived how straight-to-business he had sounded.

"None you've auditioned for."

"I've auditioned for pretty much all of them."

"I know that Eames."

There was a moment of silence; one Eames could have easily identified as a "tension building" one. He put on his best playful smile and expected the woman to speak. Perhaps she would burst into laughter and admit she was only teasing him. But she remained silent, her face composed, giving nothing away.

Eames took a step to his right side, resting his hip against the brick wall, as he attempted to conceal his nervousness. He would always take pride in his ability to feel at ease around women, most times succeeding at guiding any conversation in whatever direction he found useful, which would be, very frequently, that of a bed.

However, he could sense all his confidence slipping away. No matter how seductive he managed to look and sound, it seemed very clear to him that he would hit nothing but a cement wall. Moreover, he felt closely inspected, exposed, as if he were nothing but a subject being tested in a lab, waiting to be dissected. The feeling was intimidating to say the least.

The anonymous woman let out a very subtle smile through her pursed lips and turned on her heels, strolling away from him.

"So that's it?" Eames stared at her, confused. He followed her out of the ally and into the main street, struggling to keep up with her fast pace."You don't give me a name, anything…"

She continued to walk, not even bothering to look at him as her eyes seemed to focus on the horizon. Eames felt frustration finally catching up with him. Without giving it a second thought, he reached for her arm and forced her to face him, to look straight in his eyes. He expected to see surprise or even fear in hers but they were calm, impassive even. He loosened his grip a little, still searching for any emotion he simply couldn't find. For a moment, he felt helpless, pulled by her beautiful yet cold hazel eyes that pierced his in a clinical way.

Then, without any warning, she crushed her mouth into his. Her soft lips kissed his so fiercely; with such craving and urgency that Eames felt himself loosing balance. Her gentle hands were incredibly strong as she pulled him to her, her nails almost scratching the nape of his neck. The feeling was overwhelming. Her smooth skin and inebriating scent clouded whatever thought Eames wished to hold on to. They delayed any reaction for a couple seconds which seemed to last for countless minutes.

But, as it had begun, that kiss also came to an abrupt end. Just as Eames recovered his self-control and urged his arms to cradle her, her lips parted from his and her hands slipped from his him. The stubbornly anonymous woman took a few steps back.

"There. Now I've given you something" her voice sounded distant again as if the still lingering kiss had never happened. Before Eames could move or protest she turned her back to him and quickly strolled away, composing her hair. She waved her hand above her head, without giving him a final look.

"I'll see you around"

Taking a left, she disappeared in the night, leaving Eames all alone, glued to same spot. He had an half smile in his face, the reflex of both disbelief and pleasure. He looked up, running his hands through his hair and rain started to pour over him.

"Oh great", he muttered under his breath.

...

Hope you guys enjoined it!

Now… as an avid fan of Nolan's work, falling in love with Inception was pretty much inevitable. As a consequence, I also became curious about characters like Eames or Arthur… why and how did they become Forger and Point Man. And that pretty much sums up why I've decided to give it a try and come up with some sort of background.

I'd like to apologize for any grammar mistakes. As a non-native English speaker, it is very easy to mess up a few thinks and overlook a couple of mistakes. As for the fic itself… this is actually my first attempt, so please… don't be that harsh (even if it sucks)


	2. Chapter 2

"You're late!"

Lillian stepped into her study and shot Evans an irritated look. No matter how many times she told him not to put his feet on her desk, truth was he would always ignore her advice and do it anyway. Sometimes she wondered if knocking him off his chair would teach him a lesson for good. But then, maybe he would break an arm, a clavicle, a finger… which would leave her to explain why she had crippled the team's Architect on purpose.

"What do I keep telling you over and over again…?"

"Oh, right. Sorry. Nasty habit, I know. But I was getting bored. So…" Evans patted the seat of the chair next to his and Lillian sank into it, exhausted, "did you talk to him?"

"Yes I did" she answered fighting a yawn.

"And how did it go?"

"So far, so good."

Evans narrowed his eyes, trying to look as serious and critical as he could.

"Did you actually stick to that ridiculous "stalking" plan of yours?"

She raised an eyebrow and cocked her head to the side, folding her arms across her chest defensively as if she had taken offense at his question "Yes I did"

Evans couldn't help bursting into that contagious laughter of his "Poor Eames! Didn't he freak out? I mean, you certainly know how to pull off the psycho killer look." He pointed a finger at Lillian's face, moving it closer to the outer corner of her right eye. "There it is. See?"

"Very funny" she reached for the accusatory finger, eager to trap it between her index and thumb but Evans retracted it right away "For your information, he handled the situation quite gracefully, actually. He responds well to tension, just as I expected… "

"Honestly, what's wrong with a drink at the pub?"

"I'll tell you what's wrong. It would have been too simple, too easy."

"I don't see the big deal"

Lillian let out a loud sight. She stared at the stash of papers pilling up on her desk, wondering if she would have any sleep that night, and back at Evans.

"Here's the big deal: It's all about pushing the right buttons. You provide the right input and you'll get the expected output"

"Right. And you think his input is…?"

"A combination of mystery, challenge, an appeal to his ambition and the prospect of sexual intercourse. You provide an optimal level of each of them and you'll get him exactly where you want him to be." She had sounded exactly like a bored teacher breaking down the terms of an equation for the millionth time. Again, Evans laughed.

"Did you just say that?"

"What?"

"Prospect of sexual intercourse?"

"Yes I did. Why? Something wrong with it?"

Evans grinned. He could always tell the exact point where he'd begin to push his luck and he was just about to cross that thin line. He scratched his ginger scruff, shook his head and leaned towards Lillian.

"There's not ONE single thing wrong with it. There are several…"

"Evans …" she was cut off before starting to explain she still had an awful lot of work to do.

"First, it's a shame you're toying around with Eames' hormones. I mean, you're the one always bitching about sexism, you hypocrite! Second, what is it with the scientific approach/ terminology to every single fucking thing in life? Do you listen to yourself when you talk? I'm starting to worry about you. There's hardly a hint of spontaneity in your life these days… "

He sank back into his chair and folded his hands behind his head, visibly satisfied with his little speech, even though he regretted not having added an explicit patronizing remark at the end. That would always do the trick.

"Evans", her tone was even and slightly harsh, which was always a reliable indicator of her "I'm going to shred your stupid argument to confetti and make you choke on it" mood. She pointed her finger at him. "You, of all people, should know that I don't bitch about sexism in an absolutely gratuitous way. You see this pile of papers over here? Yeah, that's a thousand articles for me to catalogue. You heard me? Catalogue! Because after four years of hard work and dedication I'm still doing the shitty work anyone literate could do. I don't get to help him preparing his boring lectures. I don't get to attend any conferences. I don't get to do anything that truly matters. Do you know why? Because "All-Mighty Professor Maes" simply can't stand the idea of delegating any substantial task to a woman. Besides… are you a fucking therapist now?"

Evans' grin had already faded and he decided to call it for the night "Lillian, I only meant to… You know I worry about you and sometimes I think you're…"

"Evans… I don't mean to sound rude but, as Gary Oldman once put it "I haven't got the time for this Mickey Mouse bullshit", ok?"

Evans gave her an apologetic look. He rose from his chair and kissed the top of her head "Right. I'll leave you to work then. God forbid you'll start "inputting" the shit out of me."

Lillian smiled despite all the exhaustion that was catching up with her "now that's more like it!"

"Just get some sleep, will you?"

He closed the door behind him, as silently as he could manage, leaving Lillian to take on the herculean task.

"Bet I won't even get a credit in that pretentious book of his…"

...

So, that's it for chapter 2! Originally, I thought about focusing solely on Eames and writing a more extensive chapter but ended up deciding to introduce the other character, Lillian. Oh, and Evans, an Architect. (Yes, poor Evans ended up getting introduced earlier because I needed to get Lillian talking. In a way, he's my Ariadne :))

And because you were the first one to review my fic, thank you very, very much pinup-gurl09! I really hope you enjoyed this one :)


	3. Chapter 3

The door made a loud cringing sound as Eames pushed it. As always, he had to use his right shoulder to apply a much needed extra impulse. Swollen wood, as Eames had learnt, wasn't easy to tame, no matter how charmingly he would whisper nor how loudly he would curse. As he stepped into his flat, a cubicle he could barely afford, he spotted something lying on the floor. It was a small piece of paper that had been slipped under his door. He reached for it and examined it. It was an article off a much ragged newspaper, more precisely another shitty review for his play.

"The always charming Mr. Peterson."

Eames smiled grimly. He could see Mr. Peterson, his landlord, standing right in front of him while mumbling about how acting would never put food on the table or pay the rent. Sometimes Eames would force himself to agree with the elderly man but deep down he knew exactly who he was: a man who'd never been able to set roots, to choose a single occupation, to narrow his options. No. He had always wanted it all: to live vicariously through the characters he portrayed, to experience everything, to build himself from scratch whenever he wanted to, to travel the world and conquer it.

Reality vs. Dream: the never ending debating which would absorb his thoughts countless times during a single day. However, he was tired. He would not engage in such dispute at the moment. Instead, he set eyes on his bed, craving a much needed night of sleep. He took off his soaked coat and placed it on the back of a chair, hoping it would dry during the following hours. He undressed rapidly and tossed his clothes to the floor, eager to lie down on his bed. He then cleared his mind, discarding of memories and thoughts that were disturbing him at the moment. Still, there was this persistent thought clinging to his mind. Eames smiled as he replayed one last time the scene of that kiss behind his eyelids. He could recall the taste of those lips, their smoothness, the touch of those hands and the alluring scent – all the sensorial memories perfectly synchronized so he could recreate that moment as accurately as he could manage.

"If only I could put a name on that lovely face of yours, my dear…" he heard himself digress.

He shifted his position and tried to relax his muscles. The contours of the woman's face started to blur, almost as if there was a voice shouting "cut" somewhere in the back of his mind. The lights finally went off. The plateau was now empty and Eames finally drifted to sleep.

"Hey! Marlon Brando! Daydreaming again?"

Eames was abruptly brought to reality. He had a thick envelope in his hands, ready to be delivered and he hadn't realized he had zoned out and misheard any given instructions. He was having a strange day, indeed. He couldn't recalled the last time he had felt so tired, so drained, so unable to keep himself focused. He had had nightmares, probably. Those would always take a toll on him. He raised his glance from the package and looked at Adam who was still waiting for an answer or any sign of awareness from him.

"Sorry. So, this one is supposed to be delivered in hand to…" he paused to check the name of the receiver "Professor Maes, right?"

"Right. Just make sure you keep your eyes open and don't get hit by a car. And mind the pedestrians while you're at it, yeah? "

At this point, Eames would usually wink, smile his sly smile and deliver one of his trademark lines. But he just started towards the exit of the sorting office, making his way to the garage. Then, he mechanically put on his helmet, double checked if the thick envelope was in the right compartment of his backpack and got upon his bike.

After a few minutes, he was able to turn off the autopilot control. A cold breeze and a few drops of rain could sometimes come handy and do the final trick, whenever his brain felt lazy. He studied a few routes that would lead him to the university campus and made his choice: sure thing he would take an extra 5 minutes to reach his destination but at least he would avoid all the mess attached to the rush hour while enjoying some sightseeing.

At one point, he looked over his shoulder, not even sure why he was doing so. Sure thing he had a very good reason... someone was stalking him after all. As soon as he assured no one was following him, he laughed at his own narcissism: Eames was actually proud of being stalked; he found the whole thing to be flattering! As far as he was concerned, that woman could stalk him any time of the day. Still, he couldn't figure why a woman like her would exhibit such behaviour, especially since she hadn't struck him as someone heavily disturbed. There was something phony about the whole thing, making it more of an elaborated act he couldn't make sense of. And Eames couldn't stand not understanding what role he was supposed to be playing. He looked around searching for someone who would remind him of the stubbornly anonymous woman but that was rather frustrating. No one around him matched the exquisite combination that would certainly drive him mad.

As he persistently looked around, Eames became aware that he had reached the university campus sooner than expected. As he took in the series of Victorian buildings that somehow seemed to blend rather nicely with the grass, he exhaled heavily. That place made him feel slightly uneasy as it forced him to think of all he could have been if he had taken advice from his father, if he had gotten to university, if he had taken life and himself more seriously. So many memories, ghost memories that never became real, so many different courses of action, so many possible outcomes... What was it with him that day anyway? All that doom and gloom lurking around everywhere...

He exhaled again, attempting to soothe his thoughts and made an effort to focus on his task: for once, he would manage to show some sense of pragmatism. It took him just a quick glance to realize he would have to ask around for directions as there was no way he would guess in which side, building or floor the department was located. The always methodical Adam had probably gone through the whole "google thing" so Eames wouldn't waste his time strolling around clueless. However, Eames had misheard whatever instructions he was given and improvisation would be required.

"So much for pragmatism" he mumbled to himself cheerfully.

He parked his bike nearby a building which he assumed was a library and put the lock around it. He took off the helmet and ran his fingers through his hair. As he did so, it suddenly hit him.

"Building 3!" apparently, some part of his brain had properly performed its duty.

He started to hum a song he had listened to earlier in the morning and jogged to the furthest building on the east side. If his hunch was right, that would be "Building 3". On his way, he noticed an odd tranquillity.

"Holydays!" he remembered. Perhaps that time of the year had something to do with that strange emotional disturbance. "At least that rules out pregnancy..."

When he got to the entry's steps, he looked up, checked the plate above the doorframe and grinned. Improvisation was always much more rewarding... Still, he had little time to indulge in his very accurate sense of orientation/intuition. He stepped into the main hall and as he looked around for further hints, he became aware of how awkward that building felt. Even though someone had tried to lend it some character – as in hanging a nice chandelier and a few portraits around – that place exhaled sterility. Life, as one knows it, apparently had been sucked from that place a long time ago.

Eames shrugged and took a few steps forward. Opposite him, hanging from a wall, he found the always helpful plan of the building. He looked at the key box, searching for the psychology department and soon realized why he was getting all those "awkward vibes". That structure held no classrooms whatsoever and was nothing but a myriad of departments and small labs associated with neurosciences, pharmacology, psychiatry, psychology and so on. As he found the entry for the psychology department, he noticed the name of the receiver was worth a mention: apparently, Professor Maes was the one in charge.

"The nutter's place... Smashing!" he thought out loud, instantly amused by how his remark echoed and greeted him back.

Again, that catchy song was playing in the back of his mind as he ran up the stairs, heading for the second floor. Since there was no one around, Eames just went with it and began whistling the melody, releasing himself from that lingering self inflicted tension. Then he followed the corridor on the left side and finally got to his destination, the Psychology Department. He reached for his backpack and took the thick envelope. Mechanically, he curled his right hand's fingers and knocked.

"Come in."

Eames turned the doorknob and opened the door a little, deciding to have a peek first. To his disappointment, the department was more of a library where someone had accidentally tossed a couple of desks: there were no cages, no lab rats, nor sci-fi machinery in sight. He walked in and cleared his throat.

"I've a delivery for Professor Maes"

"That would be me"

Following the voice, Eames spotted a man in his sixties sitting behind a desk. He appeared to be extremely busy making notes and didn't even bother to raise his gaze from his paperwork. Eames approached him and smiled politely.

"Here it is, sir. Now, if you'll just sign here, please..."

Maes sighed, clearly expressing boredom, and took the envelope. Eames noticed a sudden thrill in his eyes, followed by a mischievous smile. Whatever was inside the envelope seemed to make him salivate. He signed the sheet Eames had held out and finally looked at him.

"Young man, you have a very nice day..."

"You too, sir."

Despite the creepy vibes, Eames nodded with a smile, retrieved the delivery's register and started towards the exit. He had just closed the door behind him when something caught his attention: from the corner of his eye he noticed someone quickly disappearing into a nearby office. Even though he caught nothing a blur, he could tell there was something oddly familiar about it: something he had been looking around for during all morning.

Eames froze. If he was right, his current predicament would either be the result of a paranoid machination or an odd twist of fate – always the optimistic he picked the latter, if anything, he would at least get some answers. He followed the corridor and approached the office as silently as he could so he could check the plate first, without getting any unwanted attention.

"Lillian Ellis, Research Assistant"

"Now, should I knock or just...? Oh, decisions, decisions..." he thought to himself as he had already started to turn the doorknob. Deep down, he already knew he was right, his instinct was so loud that it nearly made his head ache. He breathed out and threw a quick glance at the tiny office and what he saw brought a wide smile to his lips. He wasn't paranoid after all.

It was her, even though she seemed an entirely different person: her wavy hair had been released from that tight french twist and was now resting on her right shoulder. The formal attire was completely gone as well, replaced by black jeans, a purple loose tank top and a pair of flat shoes, a very casual look, deprived from any accessories, that managed to make her peculiar beauty stand out. Eames noticed how her body language had surprisingly changed as well. Lillian – there was a thrill as he realized he could put a name on her face - was sitting by a window, with her back to the door, cradling a cell phone between her shoulder and her ear, as she wrote something down. The conversation was being held in French, and while she appeared to be no native speaker, she was comfortably fluent in it. Every now and then she would nod or casually wave one of her hands, as if to emphasize whatever she was saying, and shift her position. Eames could swear she was desperately attempting to reschedule a meeting or something similar but her attempt was doomed to fail. Eventually, the conversation ended. She frowned a little, tilted her head back and muttered something unintelligible. The woman had cursed? In French? There was a sigh as reached for her desk so she could place the phone and the notepad on it. She turned again to the window and rested her fingers and forehead against it, visibly lost in her thoughts.

"That's my cue." Eames murmured.

He approached her as silently as he could, taking every advantage of her lack of attention and praying the wooden tiles beneath him wouldn't denounce his steps. He stopped when he was just at an arm's length from her, taking a second to savour her perfume and to acknowledge how that sweetness fit so much better with that new version of her. One of his muscles twitched as if accusing him of numbness, propelling him to action. Eames assessed his options and realized how easy it would be to catch her off guard and get even with her. Way to easy, actually. So, he took a small step back and folded his arms across his chest.

"Were you cursing in French?"

Her nails violently scratched the glass as she instinctively curled her fingers. To Eames' utmost amusement, she turned to face him, visibly disorientated. He took off his backpack and casually placed it on the floor, cocking his head to his right and then to his left, so he could relax his neck's muscles "Because I find it fascinating, you know? When you curse in French, the way it sounds... it's so melodic... and insults, well... they're always sort of cacophonic, aren't they? I mean, you'd certainly... agree... with that... right? No?"

He expected to be interrupted at some point, or even shouted at, but Lillian's prior shock had faded to a raised eyebrow as he had carried on with his pointless monologue. She was murmuring something Eames couldn't understand, though. And then, just out of thin air, she snapped.

"YOU" she closed the distance between them and poked him in his chest "ARE NOT HERE!"

Under a different occasion, Eames would have found the whole thing to be frightening: obviously that poor woman suffered from some kind of disorder which made her act erratically, as in stalking people, lying compulsively, showing clear signs of paranoia… But for some reason – his blessed optimism again- he felt all that awkwardness could be reasonably explained.

"Excuse me?"

"YOU..." she turned her back to him, reached for her jean's right pocket and took something from it "are not here. I'm in control. And you are not here. You couldn't possibly be here!"

Eames felt like hovering over her as he really wanted to know what was it she was holding in her hand but quickly dismissed the idea. He couldn't tell for sure but it appeared to be a pocket watch... except no one carried them around anymore, not to mention she was wearing a wrist watch already. She placed whatever that small object was in her pocket again and took a deep breath while she focused on her surroundings. She darted to the door and closed it, careful to make sure no one was eavesdropping. She leaned against it and folded her arms across her chest, eyeing Eames suspiciously.

"What are you doing in here, Eames?"

"Oh my dear, I couldn't possibly begin to explain the complexities of fate..."

"Would you please cut the crap and answer the bloody question?" she cut him.

Eames shifted his position a little. He found it funny how that woman, who without her high heels was about 6 inches shorter than him, was able to be so intimidating. There was also this warmth about her presence that fascinated him; he could tell she could radiate a pleasant warmth that would translate into kindness, or a fire that would lead to fervent rage. There was something spicy about her, even though she had tried to hide it from him. Mediterranean... definitely! Her smooth olive skin and the luscious brown hair both screamed Mediterranean to him. And even though he had never been a man to take stereotypes too seriously, her body language and her temper seemed to confirm his theory. Perhaps it was time to brush up his geography a little bit...

"Cat caught your tongue?" she waved one of her hands, placing it on her hip afterwards, visibly annoyed by the waiting.

"I'm a currier... silly!" he smiled and pointed at the plastic badge on his black shirt, for once grateful for sporting that god-awful orange logo right above his name. Lillian tilted her head forward and lowered her gaze first to Eames' badge and then to his backpack. She pursed her pillow lips to a tight line and shoved her hands in her pockets, slightly less skeptical.

"Alright, currier boy… So, you want me to believe you ended up here in my office by, say, accident?"

"You're a very negative person, aren't you?" Eames rolled his eyes and took a seat at her desk, perfectly aware of her disapproving glare "You could have said "by coincidence, pure luck as it was written in the stars", but you just had to pick "by accident", didn't you?" he threw both his hands in the hair and noticed how he still lacked the fluidity to pull it off as naturally as Lillian would have.

"Who was the receiver?"

"I couldn't possibly tell you that." He went over the top again, pretending that he had taken offense at her question "I'm an extremely ethical person; confidentiality breach doesn't even…" but then he paused, Lillian's expression had hardened too much for his liking. "Of course, I could always make room for an exception, so that would be Professor Maes"

"Maes?" That question seemed to be directed at herself, as if it was impossible that anything to do with that man would go below her radar. She frowned a little.

"Yeah, the director of…"

"I know who the bloody bastard is, thank you." She interrupted him again, clearly engaged in her own private monologue.

"Creepy man, as well. Got all excited when I handed him the envelope..."

Lillian already seemed to have reached some conclusion as she looked past Eames and through the window "One last question Eames. And please…" She looked directly at him "please… just answer it. Where did the package come from?"

"Somalia." The answer slipped from his lips even though he would have wanted to make things more difficult. He quickly realized he was right; there was this unique kindness to her, one she wouldn't probably show very often. And he had just gotten a glimpse from it the moment she had asked "please". She smiled subtly and nodded in gratitude. However, there was some bitterness in that smile of hers and Eames knew that he had, unwillingly, turned out to be the bearer of unexpected bad news. He rose from her desk and took a seat by the window, looking out at the deserted campus.

"So, casting director, huh?"

"It's not like I was blatantly lying. It was more of a metaphor, you know?" Lillian approached her desk and leaned her hip on it so she could face Eames. Once again, he couldn't take his eyes from her hands, from their fluid movements. There was something reassuring about them now, like they were the clear sign that she was finally retracting her defense mechanisms.

"The one thing I know about that sort of metaphors is that they don't always go well with, say…" he pointed at the bookshelf behind her" academic writing."

"I assume you'll agree that this is not the proper place to discuss literary figures of speech, then." Her expression had finally softened even though her tone still expressed some reserve.

"Absolutely! Just as I assume you'll also agree that you owe me a decent first date. I can be very old-fashioned at times, you see?"

Lillian rolled her eyes and gave him a look worth a thousand "I could see that one coming from miles away". However, she seemed to change her mind.

"Fair enough. In that case, I'll take you on a date you'll never, ever forget. And this is no hyperbole." Lillian gave him an enigmatic smile. There was a certain malice to it, but not the kind Eames was looking forward to. "But for now, you have to go." She walked towards the door, opened it and gestured for Eames to leave.

"Shall I just wait for you to materialize out of thin air again?" Eames collected his backpack and prepared to leave. She nodded and smiled her subtle smile. As he was passing her, he stopped and ran his fingers through his hair, resting his free hand on the door frame, so he could lean in and get nearer her. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he was already regretting not having come up with a more original move. That was a woman who loathed clichés, for sure. He stared at her magnetic hazel lines, concentrating on how gracefully her brown irises faded to green, completely ignoring the fact that Lillian didn't look slightly impressed.

"That's my cue!" he thought to himself yet again, but before he could make a move, she flinched away from him.

"Anticipation Eames! It's all about anticipation."

So, that's it for chapter 3! I'm sorry this one took a little longer… sometimes I wished my days had more than 24 hours so I could dedicate a little bit more time to this fic, because 5 minutes a day isn't getting me that far…

Also, thank you "Voldemort's Spawn" for your review! That was lovely! And "p3nny", thank you so much for your review as well, I just read it like 10 minutes ago, before putting up this chap :D and because you asked, I always tend to build fictional character's based upon actors I love. In Lillian's case, I imagine her as borrowing a few features from Monica Bellucci, such as skin tone or lips. As for her eyes, I actually hadn't think of anyone in particular and had a hard time coming up with someone who'd be the perfect match, but probably Rachel McAdams'… Evans, simply put, he would look very much like Michael Fassbender because I feel like pulling a Christopher Nolan and assembling a sexy cast as well

Hope you all enjoyed this one!


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